Eros and Charissa
by Scritch
Summary: Mortals are pathetic, mere playthings for the gods. Eros, god of love and passion, knows this all too well. For the opposite of love is not hatred, but apathy.
1. Part 1

**Eros and Charissa**

**A Greek Myth**

**- - -**

In the ancient land of Greece, the origins of the famed god of love and passion were debated. He had become so widely known to the people that when they moved on, they took stories of him with them and, as the inevitable grapevine would have it, the stories became skewed. He was the first god to create all others and bring the earth and the skies together; he was Aphrodite's son and attendant; he had been born of the night and of darkness. Poets romanticised him in appearance and deed, and suddenly he was an innocent child never to grow up.

Eros, the god in question, loved to hear his own name and see the results of his handiwork. He knew that he was old, and in listening to the prattle of mortals, he barely remembered himself where he indeed was born.

But wherever he came from, and whoever had sired him… it did not mean in any way that Aphrodite should have such a hold over him, able to bring him to heel with only a word. He was no one's lapdog.

"My will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great," he groused, as if the goddess were there to hear it; though perhaps if she had been, he would have held his tongue. He looked to the skies, and from his perch on the hill down to the meadow, and the city that lay beyond. "You have no power over me!"

His eyes drifted back over the earth, the coming temper tantrum immediately being quenched as they came to rest on a lonely figure in the field. Golden curls caught the light and he was startled by the sheer beauty of what appeared to be a mortal. Curious, he spread his wings and flew to land lightly behind the stranger.

A girl, it seemed, just entering womanhood and already blooming to become quite lovely. He thought he recognized her, though most of her kind looked the same to him. She lived in the city. Something –cissa? Charissa, was that it? No matter. He was tense, and here was a pretty plaything just waiting for his attention.

Reaching into his quiver, he drew out an arrow of gold and dove feathers. Notching it into the bow that always rested with him, he smirked, and pulled back the string.

* * *

The sharp, stabbing pain that pierced her heart caused Charissa to freeze, the delicate flowers crushed in her suddenly trembling hands. Slowly, the pain became a throbbing; blossoming from her chest throughout her body and making her breath hitch with the inexplicable feeling of mindless bliss. Her clenched fists went slack, and broken petals drifted from her hands to the earth below. A pleasurable haze blurred her vision and the girl felt the world tilt as somehow, _somehow_ she stumbled to her feet and turned. 

An angel stood before her.

Eros contained the smirk that threatened to cross his handsome features. The thrill of seeing his power take over a person, be they god, mortal or nymph, was nearly as pleasing as the amusement that followed. He strode forward, stopping only a few paces away from the girl still caught in the temporary nirvana that his arrows induced. She rose from her kneeling position, staggering, her movements drunken and sluggish.

He could actually _see_ the pure, unadulterated love that filled her as blue eyes turned on him; it spread through her form just as the power of his arrow had, until every part of her was aching for him.

Charissa blinked, very slowly, not knowing that the god took a moment to admire the beauty that she seemed so unaware of. Just as she was unaware of everything now but the deity before her, just a few steps away… just out of her reach…

"My love?" she breathed, her small hands clasping over her heart. She knew the words were right the moment that she spoke them. This man, whoever he was… he was hers, and she was his, and everything was right in the world as long as he was there. Thoughts of anything but him fled her mind, and for a moment she forgot her own name.

Complete and utter obsession overtook her.

The young woman took a small step, and for once in a life grace also abandoned her as she tripped over the basket of flowers that she'd been working so hard for – and, strangely enough, didn't seem to matter now. All that mattered was the blood that rushed to her face as a heavenly sound filled the air; she realized that her love was laughing, and a sweet smile spread over her face even as she blushed in embarrassment.

Her blush intensified, taking on a new emotion as her fall was stopped by two strong arms wrapping around her slender body, cradling it close.

She breathed in his scent, savouring the feeling of being held by the one person that gave her reason for living.

Eros did allow the smirk, now.

And then the world shattered.

"_Don't touch me, witch."_

Charissa started. She looked up, and her love was scowling down at her, his beautiful visage marred by anger. Then suddenly there was pain as she was shoved away, tripping over the basket yet again and falling to the ground.

"Witch?" she inquired, voice soft with confusion. "My love, who are you speaking to?"

Something wet hit her cheek, and her blue eyes went round with shock. A part of her mind tried to rationalise why he would spit on her, while the other claimed that it was simply rain. Rain was coming. He would never do such a thing!

Eros sneered at the comely, pathetic creature before him, barely able to restrain his glee as he spoke. "I'm not your love, _witch. _Spawn of evil, do you know who _you_ are speaking to?"

The frown did not become her, he decided, as she stuttered, "I-I… I am Charissa, and you are- ...my love," she finished lamely. The comment of evil had not even registered in her brain, fogged as it was.

"I am Eros, god of love," he stated his title. "Love for all but you, my _dear._" The seeds planted, he took his leave, unfurling his golden wings as he prepared to fly from the meadow. She would come for him. They always did.

When he was gone from the skies, Charissa looked down. Dirt smeared the clean white linen of her clothing.

It didn't matter.

Basket and flowers forgotten, she hurried to her home, no doubt to be scolded by her mother.

That didn't matter either.

Eros. That was his name.

Where had she heard it before…?


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

Eros knew how to play the human heart as well as Apollo did his lyre. He considered himself the expert on mortal passion and emotion… though he rarely experienced the latter himself. The organ that lay within his chest, life-sustaining and beating just as it did with all living creatures, was merely for show; it was useless, and if it could be made of something other than muscle and flesh it would be of the same lead as his arrows that forced one to apathy.

Apathy. That was his weapon that gave him control over such feeble things as emotion and the heart.

For the opposite of love is not hatred, but apathy.

And he saved it for last.

The god began with hatred; with contempt, and loathing. His victim had never experienced such things. She was sweet, kind, and gentle, and as such had never garnered such negative responses from even the surliest of sailors or the most bitter of widows.

The day after their first meeting, with the sun high in the sky and beating on the backs of the people in the market, he dressed as a commoner, with only his golden head revealed to shine like a beacon to her covetous eyes. He could see her even through the throngs of people, a single beautiful maiden that looked around herself constantly, not out of paranoia but of want. His body called to hers, and when he slipped through the crowd and purposefully brushed their hands for only a second, he could hear her gasp.

She followed him out of the market, to the hollowed ruins of a house burned down just days before. The young family had already evacuated, leaving only the skeleton of the house with its crumbling walls and few pieces of furniture, blackened beyond repair.

She spoke first. "My love, I've found you." He didn't hide his snort of disdain; tears glistened in her eyes but didn't fall. "Will you take me?"

Eros leaned against a solid part of one of the remaining walls, his posture careless. "Does a god of love lower himself to take a creature such as you?" He smiled, charming and malicious. "You are a spawn of the evil of Pandora's box, Charissa."

Lowering her eyes, she sank onto a three-legged stool that wobbled. "Why do you say such things?" Her voice trembled, pleading. "How can you?" Reaching out to him.

He came towards her, crouching with a straight back to peer at her, smile still on his face. "If you touch me," he said kindly, cruelly. "I will kill all that you love."

Her eyes widened and, disregarding his words and positive that he wouldn't kill himself, her hands grasped at his tunic. "But I love you!" she exclaimed, desperate for him to see.

His body went very still, and in the shadows cast by the sun's rays through the ruins he looked like a marble statue, frozen in this moment of desolation and rejection. Slowly, his gaze moved down, focusing on her hands, one of which had fluttered down to his and grasped his fingers tentatively. Eros rose.

"You bring this on yourself."

* * *

Charissa was hurt, but not deterred. He would see; he had to! He was merely toying with her – more than she knew – to make the chase sweet and the victory even sweeter.

His hurtful words played over in her mind, and she gave a choked laugh, half a sob, as she stumbled to her home. Removing her shawl - it was so very hot, and there was a burning deep within her that scorched the inside of her skin – she ducked her head and entered the little house that she shared with her parents and sisters.

"I'm home, Mother," she called, voice distant as already she had forgotten why she was here, rather than with Eros. Shaking her head to clear it, Charissa looked around her at the barren rooms, cold on this hot day. "Mother? Father?"

Silence greeted her, and she made her way to the back, to the kitchen. Her family sat casually in chairs, dinner already laid out before them. They turned to face her with welcoming smiles that contradicted everything around them and tried to reassure her that the sense of foreboding gliding over her was only her imagination.

The winged god in the corner went unseen, Hermes' stolen helmet perched on his head. He'd return it when he no longer had need of invisibility; he could cloak himself with his own heavenly powers, erase his presence from the sight and hearing of mortals… but Eros wanted her to feel him there. So close, and so untouchable. With a smirk, he pulled back the string of his bow, four arrows lined neatly in a row. The heavy lead bolts flew as he released, hitting their marks of the hearts of the family neatly.

Unlike the haze of pleasure that clouded the mind of one struck by his golden arrows, the lead arrows caused a feeling of ice flowing through veins, piercing the heart and thrusting contempt onto the first person seen by the afflicted one.

The family's smiles turned to disdainful glares as their eyes became flat and empty at the sight of her.

Her hands came clasped together over her heart protectively. It was so surreal, but undeniably tangible and absolute.

One by one, they turned away.

* * *

The apathy worked best when she bore witness to his utter disregard for her infatuation with him. In the little broken house that he'd denied her in, and in the green meadow where they'd met, he took his mortal lovers – women uglier than her, young boys whose beauty rivalled hers, and one self-proclaimed witch – and seduced them. Her weeping was drowned out by the sounds of passion.

When a particularly vocal lover of his had departed, discarded like all the others – because no mortal could ever truly satisfy a god, and taking one after the other broke her piece by piece – she must have been shattered enough to step forward from the shadows, a voyeur to his mockery of love.

"Was she good, my love?"

Turning, Eros arched one golden brow at the sight of her, unsurprised. She was hunched forward ever so slightly, as if trying to lean into him without moving from where she stood. Head tilted, her hands were clasped laxly together.

"Did she taste of figs and berries, Eros?" the girl inquired, leaning farther. "Did you drink of her, her hateful, spiteful mouth that makes the fruit go bad in spring?" Her tone was strange, more unnerving that despite her jealous words she spoke so softly. Charissa began to sway slightly, back and forth, her hands moving with the rhythm of her body. "You danced together, did you not? Hear the cries of those who are innocent and dance to the music… Cry, cry my heart, for the king has not cancelled the party."

The white dress that must have fit her once but now hung drab on her body and pooled at her feet, hid the movements of her steps as she swayed and came forward, so quietly that he didn't notice until she was right in front of him as she finished speaking. With surprising speed she reached out and buried her fingers in his golden hair, an ecstatic moan escaping her at the contact as she pressed her lips against his own.

He grabbed her thin shoulders, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, and wrenched her away from him. Shoving her down, she collapsed, and when her dull blue eyes rose to his face he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and spat on her. Memories of the first time he had done so suddenly filled his mind, and he though that the only difference then was those eyes.

"I will find my pleasures," he hissed, voice thin and malicious and anything but seductive. "You taste of ashes."


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

Pity had never been an emotion that the god of love took well. He was too cruel to even entertain the thought of sympathy, or empathy, or whatever it was that made mortal beings so sentimental and allowed them to be hurt and offended so easily.

So it was beyond him as to comprehend the feeling welling up inside him when the monotonous repetition of his game with the human girl was altered merely by the sight of her wretched being.

Perhaps it was in the eyes; one pupil slightly more dilated than the other, testifying to her madness. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then those once vibrant orbs, now glowing only with madness, allowed him to look into an empty hollow where her spirit had once been.

If it wasn't in the eyes, then it was in her wasted form. Where she had been delicate but curvaceous, pleasing to the eye, her skin was sickly, thin and dry, as if she would crumble at any moment, like a moth come too close to the flame.

_Like a mortal come too close to the power of a god._

Her lips were pale and stretched thin over her mouth as she smiled at him; sweet, childish, and utterly mad. Two bony arms reached out to him, and for once she was just as he'd claimed her to be; repulsive.

Yet when he finally acknowledged her descent into this repulsive state of being, that feeling surged through him again, and he didn't quite understand it.

"Come, come to me my love," she sing-songed, voice hoarse and black as a raven's. "I wish to dance amongst the stars, listening as they whisper their songs to me. Gently, gently comes the night. Will you join me?"

The god stared at her thin, pale hand, and found himself reaching out. Cold steel pressed against his thigh.

Her smile grew wider as she was drawn into his arms, and she was at peace.

Closing his eyes, Eros moved his hand down over her body – ribs, spine, hips, so very sharp they hurt him – and then back to his own, his hand grasping the ivory handle, sliding it upwards.

She gasped. Red stained her dress, and the bleeding of her heart was manifested.

"My love," she whispered, eyes fluttering closed as she pressed against him, and the blood drip, drip, dripped down and over their bodies. "It's so cold...

Am I falling in love with you again?"

_Am I dying because of you again?_

* * *

End


End file.
